


Candy Apples & Alfajores

by gayandcynical



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas gift, I Tried, M/M, MasterChef AU, cooking au, very late christmas gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayandcynical/pseuds/gayandcynical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Tony and Loki have been cooking for as long as they can remember (well, close enough), and when they both have a shot at MasterChef our favourite sarcastic assholes meet. There are kitchen fires, there are knife wounds, and that's just the Calling Card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of the FrostIron gift exchange 2015 - which I am fashionably late for. Enjoy <3

From the time he is three, Loki can remember making dessert with his mother and brother. It is an image that he reflects upon often, closing his eyes he can still smell the sweetness of boiling sugar, feel the polished edges of worn counters under his fingertips.

“Careful,” Frigga would say as Loki stirred the caramel. “It’s hot and if you’re not careful, it’ll burn you.”

The entire Odinson family had gone apple picking and there was a box of apples sitting on the counter behind them. Loki stirred at the caramel, which was now bubbling merrily. His focus was on its making utterly, unlike his brother who was distracted instead by the promise of fruit.

“Mama! Mama look!” Thor yelled. He had finished sticking all the apples, lined up as neatly as a five year old could make them. Frigga tussled his long, blond hair and told him he’d done a good job. Her eyes held pride.

“Is it done mama?” Loki asked, still at that age where words like “it” and “done” slide together as one. Frigga moved towards her younger son and took the wooden spoon from him. To Thor and Loki, it looked like she could tell from smell alone. Once she gives her approval, they take turns dipping the apples, swirling to get every last drop of the sugary goodness.

It is not, as Thor would suggest, picture perfect. But for Loki, it’s good enough and now as he relives the memory, worrying the photo of him and Thor at the stove between his fingers, he considers whether or not this was a stupid idea after all.

At fifteen years old, watching MasterChef had been a sacred event at the Odinson household. Not because everyone enjoyed it, but because Loki insisted upon it. At 7:00 sharp, he would be on his spot on the couch, worrying an old security blanket between his fingertips. His stress levels were particularly high during the “heats”, a three-round process whereby the judges would, as Thor so elegantly put it, “weed out the weak”. Loki can still remember the stress of those annual three weeks like they were yesterday, anxiously hoping that his favourites for that season were selected, sharing the emotional highs and lows with the chefs on the screen. It was a world he longed to join as a child, a magical place where people who could cook made masterpieces, edible artwork. In his mind, cooking was synonymous with the word: _Beauty._

He shakes himself free from distraction then, it’s _cold_ out. He shifts on his feet, trying to coax some warmth back into them. He’s got a lunchbox clasped like a bomb between his gloved and frozen hands, keeping three miniature French-Canadian tourtières warm. Making it had been a calming experience but this, standing in line for the first audition, is the exact opposite and Loki wonders for the thousandth time if this was a terrible idea after all.

 _“You’ll do fine, sweetheart.”_ His mother had said on the phone. _“Just make sure to use that recipe I gave you in high school, you can’t go wrong with – ”_

 _“I know mama.”_ He had said, smiling fondly on the phone. Her voice never had the same quality over the speaker, but he supposed it was his own fault for moving a couple hundred miles away in the first place.

Loki is being ushered into the room and there are bugs crawling up and down his spine. He takes a moment to compose himself before introducing himself to the people in the room. One of them is a producer and, of course, a table of judges. He opens the lunch box carefully and takes out the mini tourtières and sets them down.

****

Tony had not had the same experience with food Loki had. Though both had grown up in a similar neighbourhood with similar parents and an almost painfully similar upbringing, Tony’s was just different enough (note – just upper class enough) that his meals were made by someone else, served by hands that gradually became familiar.

His introduction to kitchen came a few years later than Loki at ten, when he snuck down to the kitchens for a snack a little after nine, following an intense borderline all-nighter of programming. Brilliant from a young age and taking after his father, the boy had originally had far-off dreams of becoming an inventor, the likes of which the world had never seen.

Rosa, the cook, was dozing in the corner just a little. Seeing the youngest Stark in bare feet and pajamas roused her to her feet. She had blinked at the boy sleepily, smiling in such a way that the rounded friendliness of her mouth instantly put Tony at ease.

“Mister Stark, what can I get you?” She asked in a way that suggested English was not her first language. Big, curious brown eyes looked up at her. Tony, curiosity digging him in the sides kicked his feet against the kitchen floor, unsure of how to ask for help in much of anything. He had never needed it, not very often at least. His father often mocked the idea of seeking out aid. He was unsure of how to go about requesting it, and as a result he asked a different question, awkward and embarrassed despite himself.

“What snacks do you eat?” he’d asked. She looked confused and Tony flushed, disliking the fact that his unspoken question had not been made clear. He was going to let it go and ask for a grilled cheese, when Rosa smiled, suddenly seeming to understand. She looked at the dark-haired boy and saw the way his large brown eyes flicked to the pots and pans, all lined up along the gleaming kitchen counters.

“I’ll show you.”

Rosa, Tony learned that night, was from Argentina. She had grown up there with two sisters and a little brother. Her favourite things to eat were alfajores.

“Alfa – alfa –” Tony tried to repeat the word.

“Al-fa-ho-res.” She repeated, slower.

“Al-fa-hor-es.” He tried, not quite managing to imitate her accent. It frustrated him, and his nose scrunched in displeasure. Still the cook smiled at him, chuckling good-naturedly even as she bent to root through the cupboards for utensils.

“Good.” She’d said, pulling out the ingredients for the dough. They spent that night making alfajores caseros in a kitchen Tony had only been inside a handful of times. She showed him how to line the edge with shredded coconut without getting it all over the cookie part. He snuck spoonfuls of dulce de leche behind Rosa’s back and she pretended not to notice.

There was still a bit of awkwardness between them, a hesitance not born from a language barrier or an age difference or even a class difference, but something that ran a little deeper. It was not enough for Tony to stop talking at a million miles an hour, rolling alfajores in shredded coconut and it was not enough for Rosa to stop pretending he wasn’t eating all her good dulce de leche.

By the time she had retired and moved back to Argentina, Rosa had taught Tony the very basics. She taught him how to make simple cakes and frostings, how to bake a pie so that the apples tasted sweet and the crust crunched, and how to brown onions and _why_ that was important and how to make the salmon he liked, but also the recipes from where she grew up on.

The first time Tony made a batch of alfajores alone, it was while he’s at MIT. He was in his apartment, fresh out of high school and newly released into the big bad world and was ready to cry when they didn’t taste the same as Rosa’s did.

Unlike Loki, Tony didn’t wait in line when he decided he wanted to make this a career. The name _Stark_ held power, and Tony was as at ease wielding it as he was breathing. As soon as he expressed an interest, the producer had all but had a heart attack and instructed him to come an hour early, she’d make sure he got in and didn’t cause any kind of scandal. He made Rosa’s chilli and a loaf of bread. It was  still warm by the time he got in and even if the judges hadn’t been impressed, he was almost sure he would have got in. He was waved away and told to pack his bags for a few months.

That night, he considered calling Pepper, Rhodey, anyone, and then looks for Rosa’s number. When he couldn’t find it, he called Pepper.

Now Tony lies in his hotel bed, flickering through the memories of what had made him come here. He licks his lips absently, dreaming of sweet desserts and the warm voice of a woman who in many ways had been more of a mother to him than his own. A bubble of challenge rises up in him, and he clenches his fist, lifting it towards the ceiling as if making a vow. His grin is wide as he promises himself.

_I’ll win this. I’m going to win. For Rosa._

****

Loki gets the call back in three days, three days spent micro analysing every single thing he’d done in the kitchen before he almost cries. The first person he calls, of course, is his mother.

“I did it.” He smiles even though she cannot hear that. Not that it matters, she’s all but screaming on the other end and he can feel a genuine grin tipping at his thin lips. The pre-interview where they show his bio, why he cooks, is scheduled for next week and then he’s on a plane to Australia for what could be a few days or a few months. He begins the arduous process of explaining his absence to his boss.

Within two hours, there are over 100 people in this hotel. Yet six hours later, there are only 50 left, and both Loki and Tony remain. They take no notice of each other, too focused on the goal that both of them crave: supremacy.

 

_The Calling Card_

For Tony, being dressed and made up is not a big deal. He’s been doing it since he was a kid, really, and takes the fussing of the makeup artists for granted.

For Loki it’s all kinds of new. He is sat down, fawned over, dressed and undressed and finally put back out into the lineup. He’s next to a woman with scarlet lips and a short tangle of red curls and a man, shorter than he is, with artfully messy brown hair. He’s sure he recognises him, but for the life of him can’t place the man’s face. The asshole is wearing sunglasses inside. Then, the doors open, and Loki is too distracted to be annoyed over the prick wearing sunglasses inside.

When the judges step out, Loki almost has a heart attack. They’re _right. There._ And he is supposed to remain calm. He studiously ignores the cameras buzzing around the group like gossipy flies.

“In this group, there are 50. In an hour, there are only going to be 24 of you.” The first judge says. The tall one, Tony struggles to remember his name. “In this round, you’ll be creating your signature dish. And if you can impress us, all three of us, you’ll win one of these aprons. If you want to do this, if you _want_ this, you’ll reach for these with both hands. But there are only twelve of these to win. If you get two yeses, for example, we’ll give you a second chance tomorrow.”

 _Ha. Second chances._ Tony thinks. “Let’s cook!” the judge announces, waving his hands for them to start.

The timer is off, and just like that, so are the hopeful amateurs. Loki already knows how this works – he’s been watching this show since he was a kid, after all, and so he is already prepared. He goes immediately to the pantries and starts looking for the ingredients to make chicken in sun-dried tomato cream sauce.On his way there, he bumps into the redhead.

“Sorry.” She mutters. She’s reaching for something in the vegetables and there are…beets, in her hand. The momentary distraction is all Loki needs to get back to work.

The familiarity of searing chicken thighs in butter calms his anxiety and lets him breathe. His claim to fame on this recipe is that he can do it drunk, blindfolded and while writing a term paper. By the time he is seasoning his chicken, he is as calm as he would be in his own kitchen with Frigga’s gentle encouragements at his back. He gets his dish in the oven when the cameraman comes up to him.

“Hey there, Loki.” He smiles, his teeth overly white and wide. “What are you making for us today?” he asks. Loki’s throat is embarrassingly tight, now that it’s happening, it’s real.

“Chicken thighs in sun-dried tomato cream sauce.” He blurts out, awkward in that the sentence has almost no inflection. He looks calm; really, even though he’s convinced he’s sweating through his shirt and blushing hard.

“Can’t wait to try it.” He says, then walks away, leaving Loki a hot mess. He tries to concentrate on not dropping plates with his sweaty hands. So far, he manages, so long as he doesn’t dare to think of the stakes.

Tony, on the other hand, is a flurry of movement and stress. He is making maple salmon – absolutely his most favourite dish. In an unfamiliar kitchen however, he is awkward and feels as though he’s working with two left hands. When asked what he’s making, he keeps a straight face and tries to look as confident as he doesn’t feel, but he ultimately doesn’t pull it off all the way. His nerves are leaving him jittery, like an over-shaken can of pop. He pulls the pan out of the oven with three minutes to spare, which he spends nervously plating his dish.

“Tony!” the cameraman sounds like he’s trying to be friendly, even though he looks a little shaky. People do that in front of him, look nervous. “What are you making for our judges today?” he asks, subtly directing him to look away from the camera. He gives a genial smile, but as he’s about to answer, he just about drops a saucepan of maple glaze.

_Fuck._

“Maple salmon.” He bites out, gaining control over his dishes again and the timer goes off before anything else can be said. He tries not to let it show how relieving that is. He looks at his dish, silently hoping that what he has made looks as perfect as he believes it to be.

50 has decreased to 24 and Loki stands, holding an apron and almost in tears, while Tony gripes silently about a second chance for his underdone fish. Both of them are silently grateful that they’ve earned a place in the kitchen today.

Settling into the dorms is an interesting experience. Loki dislikes people, particularly large volumes of people, but finds it in himself to endure. There are several other contestants, and he knows despite his own awkwardness that he cannot hope to avoid talking to them at least once in awhile.

“I’m Clint.” One of the other contestants greets him, taking away the chore of making small-talk. He is the first person to introduce himself in this new, strange setting. Loki shakes the extended hand, putting on a polite smile.

“Loki.” He offers.

“Weird name. Where you from?” he asks, conversationally. One hand scratches the back of his sandy hair.

“Oh, here and there really.” Loki replies in that same conversational tone. He brushes off thoughts of his own personal life, knowing that if he were to get lost in them, the familiar panic and nerves would settle back in.

The door slams before the conversation can continue. Tony is, simply put, angry. Everyone in the room picks up on it, as if a black cloud has entered the dorm. Loki instincts tell him to give the man a wide berth. _Trouble._

“Under fucking cooked my ass.” Tony mutters, sweeping into the room. He flops onto one of the sofas with a grunt, acting much like a child as he curls, facing inwards. The noise brings another person into the room. A soft click comes from the bedrooms and a slight man with a riot of curls peeks his head out. Dark eyes blink over at Tony, taking in his anger.

“Hello.” He says quietly. Loki finds himself instantly more comfortable with him in the room, something soothing about his presence. Once everyone is the room and introductions are made properly, the cameras come in.

“Hey guys.” A cameraman says. “My name’s Ed, my sound guy is John and we’re just here to get some footage. Are you guys all good?” he asks. Tony is the one to give consent for the entire group, which absolutely rubs Loki the wrong way. The man is irritating, _charming,_ and utterly a hog for the interview, and all of it makes Loki Odinson’s hands clench into fists and his mind come up with one solid decision:

_He was going to ignore Tony Stark if his life depended on it._

He’s hot, Tony decides. The one who made that plain _fucking_ chicken is hot, and moody. He avoids the cameras as much as he can, but when he’s on he is as genial as one could hope and Tony absolutely fucking _despises_ it. He has a beer with a kid called Peter who Tony is almost 90% sure isn’t legal drinking age and plays it cool, but his hand still twitches with pent up irritation with himself and the judges. Next time, he will not be beaten.

_The Invention Test_

In the Invention Test, as it is called, is a process in which the 24 remaining chefs will make a dish from one of two boxes – sweet or savoury. They can use any extra ingredients they want.

“But you _must_ use at least three from within your box.” The judge waves a finger in warning. They are given 60 minutes to get their dish made and plated. Tony grins in anticipation.

“And go!” The judge’s yell springs them all into action.

There is a single, blinding instant where Loki just about loses his shit from the second they are told to go, and he forces himself to reign it in and deal with it later. His hand hovers over which boxes and as he’s reaching for the box on the right, his hand goes to the left one without his consent. He peels the lid open and inside, he finds a bunch of rhubarb, a few packets of glycerine, a bag of demerara sugar, vanilla beans and a punnet of strawberries. The second he looks inside and spots the strawberries and the rhubarb he knows what he is doing and he doesn’t walk, doesn’t have a semblance of calm when he runs to the back to pull what he needs.

Tony notes the blur of black and green going by his eyes, then contemplates his boxes. He picks one at random and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t really know what to do with half of the ingredients. Just his fucking luck. There’s a thing of cherry tomatoes and beans, which he’s happy to recognise, but then he sees okra and firm tofu. He paws through it a little more and mercifully finds couscous. Beside him, he can hear two contestants muttering to themselves.

“What the _fuck_ is quinoa?” Clint exclaims and Natasha just snickers into her box.

“Seriously guys, come on!”

Tony looks through the fridge for duck breasts and when he finds two cuts he’s satisfied with, he starts peeling potatoes. He does it quickly and efficiently, only risking loss of skin once and chops them into a decent size. Once they’re chopped, he puts them in a pot and fills it with water. He looks up for just a second and sees Loki kneading pie dough like it’s personally beaten his mother.

“Use the mixer.” He offers, not thinking. Green eyes look up to meet him. “It won’t toughen up your dough as much.” He turns off the tap and puts the potatoes on the stove then goes about searing his duck breasts. He doesn’t acknowledge Loki’s quiet thank you, laced as it is with surprise.

Loki can, in great detail, remember the last time he made strawberry rhubarb pie. Not because the situation was great, and not because his love of cooking is so strong it borders on a fetish but because he still has a scar where the pyrex dish shattered in his hands. It had been two months before he was due to move out for college and he was in his father’s office, looking for his high school transcripts when he came across a completely different file. The adoption certificate was just as innocent as the high school transcripts, but it was like looking at a brand, a wound that Loki hadn’t even known had been inflicted upon him suddenly opening, bleeding and hurt.

_“Loki!” Thor called. “You making dinner bro?” he asked. Loki’s hand tightened on the folder, and he felt as if he had stumbled upon something hidden, something shameful. He wondered at the emotion, even as the world around him seemed to shift. He had to swallow twice before he could find the right tone in which to reply._

_“Sure thing.” He responded. “What do you want me to make?” he asked, standing up and leaving the file on the desk for Odin to find. His brother’s merry voice seemed wrong, somehow to him. All of it, his home, his life. Seemed wrong. Loki’s hands tightened at his sides, even as Thor’s booming voice carried down the hall._

_“I don’t really know but can you make that strawberry pie thing?” he asked, hopeful. Loki nodded as he came into the kitchen, but he felt as if the action was forced. He went about gathering the supplies he’d need for the pie, measuring cups and bags of sugar feeling strangely unreal in his hands._

_Odin came downstairs the exact instant the oven’s timer went off, and his footsteps sounded to Loki as if from very far away. The anger they brought, despite not even seeing the man’s face at that moment, hit Loki like a physical blow. He was suddenly furious, so angry that he could barely see through the haze of red that clouded his vision. His hands clenched inside the oven mitts he donned._

_“Loki, I noticed a file on my desk.” Odin’s voice was careful, as if he felt he was threatening a small animal. What he didn’t seem to realise was that Loki felt as if he were walking a wire, a dangerous line that left him feeling less like some small helpless animal, and more like a lion cornered in a cage._

_The atmosphere in the kitchen became decidedly unpleasant then, the silence stretching outwards and seeming to fill and choke the air. Loki continued to look only at his hands, the pie. It was easier. As if compelled to break the ice, Odin’s voice continued. It was a mistake, but as Loki knew too well, hindsight was 20/20._

_“Yeah.” Odin muttered, and now that he actually had to address it, he was awkward and formal. “Look, son – ”_

_“Don’t fucking call me that!” Loki snarled, and there was an almighty crashing sound. Suddenly, his hands and feet were in pain, and everything seemed washed in swathes of colour, too saturated and bright. He yelled at the fire that licked his palms, and noted the red on his hands and feet (why was he always barefoot? God he was an idiot)._

_No amount of talking seemed to fix the mistakes that Odin had made that night, and Loki hadn’t been particularly inclined to try. The lie that perforated the house seemed to reduce his father to shouting, him to screaming, and his mother to tears. Thor through it all remained like a shock victim, quiet and afraid and lost. It was, Loki would remember, the strangest and most uncomfortable personality shift he had seen in his life._

Here and now, Loki is carefully placing the lattice-work pie dough strips on the pie. His hands tremble ever so slightly and he tries not to let it affect his work. When he manages to put the pie in the oven without dropping it, he counts himself lucky and even allows himself a moment to breathe before getting to work on the vanilla whipped cream. It is soothing to see the cream turning into a solid and once it does, he sets about slicing the vanilla pod. His timer goes off and he opens the oven.

“Fire!” someone yells and it’s a fucking _miracle_ he doesn’t drop the pie right then and there. He looks up, trying to find the culprit. Every single camera is trained at Clint’s station where, holy shit, something’s actually on _fire._

Clint is yelling, shaking his hand and moving towards the sink. Tony’s eyebrows rise a little; already pitying the poor guy who’s going to have to censor Clint.

“Do we have a medic?” he asks for the other contestant, calm now but with a towel wrapped around his hand. Someone is on the phone with 911.

“Oh, come on guys, I don’t really need an ambu –” Clint starts, trying to shrug off help. He is interrupted by the tell-tale screeching and Tony forces himself to get back to his salted caramel sauce before it too suffers the same fate.

“I told you fuckers I don’t know what quinoa is.” Clint mutters bitterly from the seat he’s taken.

When Clint is eliminated, no one is even remotely surprised. Tony’s salted caramel duck on a bed of couscous with mashed potatoes, cherry tomatoes and green beans earns several compliments, but Natasha ends up being scored higher for her green apple roasted duck. Just his fucking luck that they both end up choosing duck and her skillset seems to seriously outdo Tony’s. Loki’s strawberry rhubarb pie with vanilla bean whipped cream earns points for being the only dessert on the table, but is too simple to get ranked too high.

Loki can’t even find it in himself to be disappointed but is almost glad he doesn’t have access to social media to bitch about it.

 

_The Impression Test_

_“The Impression Test: the contestants must cook a two course meal in 75 minutes for past winners and finalists of MasterChef. 1 hour to serve the main course, and a further fifteen minutes after that to serve dessert.”_

There were few honestly _good_ memories of living in the Odinson household but this one, this was a good one. Sitting on that worn spot on the couch on a Thursday, watching The Impression Test.

This round had always been a favourite of Loki’s – a chance for the chefs to honestly show off their skill-set, not just to the judges, but also other people who’d been on the show. He spent the night before in the dorm reading through his beaten up, old leather recipe journal. There were crossed out recipes, notes written in pencil, marker, pen, and one memorable one written in crayon (his niece’s work, chocolate chip cookies, written in blue crayon).

He takes notes that evening, and it takes him an entire two hours to decide what he is making. His first course would be miniature tacos (which look pretty because they eliminate the need for traditional taco shells and instead use rose-shaped taco “bowls”) with spicy Mexican rice, made with jalapeños, corn and peas. For his main, he will make vegetarian tortilla soup which, really, it exactly what it sounds like. All of the spicy, bean-filled, cheesy goodness of a good quesadilla in a soup. For dessert, he has decided on a drunk college favourite: tequila lime cupcakes. He has the entire meal structured down to the last minute which is what lets him sleep comfortably that night.

Tony, however. Tony is a mess. He is torn between risking a duck dish again or going for something cozier, something daring, something bold or new age-y or even something vegan when he puts down his recipe book, stumbles into bed and gives up on the organised lifestyle. He’ll figure it out in the morning.

Morning comes, and with it indecision, which eventually leads Tony to making deep fried mashed potato gravy bombs as a first course and a monster of a turkey sandwich that he lovingly names the “Thanksgiving in a Bun” for a whopping turkey breast, mayo, gravy, carrot, bean and stuffing (honest to god stuffing) filling. For dessert, he serves apple pie with burnt butter ice cream.

Things go without a hitch in the kitchen for him, reaffirming his belief in the casual approach he takes to life and cooking alike. But when he sees the black-haired string bean with his rigidly timed meal and tequila cupcakes (cupcakes with _tequila_ , like, actual tequila), he questions it. Even more so when the string bean is given higher marks over his “Thanksgiving in a Bun”. He mentally curses Loki, even through his grudging respect building for him.

Being social with competitors, Tony learns, is absolutely no different than being at a business meeting. It’s all pleasantries and niceties with the underlying knowledge that given one word, you wouldn’t think twice about bashing their heads in to win. It’s not much different when the last competitors – Bruce, Peter, Steve, Natasha and the string bean, Loki, all have the same look about them. Friendly, but hyper aware that they are all here to win.

“So how, string bean,” Tony begins. “Did you learn to make tequila lime cupcakes?” he asks, genuinely curious. The whip thin man laughs.

He doesn’t seem quite as stressed, or as haunted and nervous when he smiles, and it occurs to Tony that Loki is honestly, kind of attractive. More than attractive.

“More importantly, why is a billionaire on MasterChef?” he retorts, smiling up at Tony. Stark pretends to think, scratching his beard.

“Good PR.” He decides. The entire room cracks up, and in that moment the tension is loosened immediately.

“My aunt told me to audition.” Peter says.

“How old are you anyways?” Tony demands.

“Guess.” He says dryly, clearly used to this.

“12?” Steve offers.

“No, at least 13, his voice dropped.” Loki joins in sharply. He winks at Peter afterwards, softening the blow a little.

“15.” Bruce offers, offering a self-deprecating grin.

“Nine.” Tony and Loki say at the same time, pausing to glance at each other. Peter rolls his eyes, obviously fed up.

“Oh my god guys, I’m –”

“17.” Natasha says, the first time she’s spoken. Peter tilts his can of coke at her.

“Yes indeed.”

Hearing why all of them are here is interesting, Loki decides. This is the shit that doesn’t get on TV; it’s the personal stuff that doesn’t really translate well on to TV. The emotion of it, the personal aspect, it makes his co-competitors more human, in his mind.

“I was 14 when I first started cooking.” Natasha says, her red curls half-hiding her face.  She smiles at the memory, just a little. “I almost broke a blender, but I made soup.” She swirls her drink before taking a sip.

“I was three.” Loki is quiet. “I made candy apples with my mother and brother.” When he offers no more, the rest of the group looks at him. One gaze knows more than it should, Natasha’s eyes strange and somehow omniscient. It is too hard of a look to bear, for himself. “Night guys.” He abruptly stands up, walking away with a light step.

After a moment, Tony clumsily gets up to follow him. He finds Loki putting his glass in the dishwasher, thin frame bent over the task. His dark hair is falling just a bit into his face, making harsh features somehow softer.

“Hey.” Tony greets him. Loki looks up, and Tony is struck by how green those eyes are. They momentarily leave him just a little speechless.

“Hello.” He says. He sounds a little wary, and it’s phrased like a question. He looks at Tony as if the man might eat him.

“So what do you do away from…this?” Tony gestures vaguely at the dorm. Loki gets a curious look in his eye, a dark brow rising in challenge.

“School? Work? The usual?” he offers. Tony looks at him, and the expression must be just a little bit pitying because something in Loki’s face sharpens and his tone turns hard. “What do you do, other than flirt with guys half your age?”

“Hey! I’m 27, not 40!” Tony exclaims, mock offended. He sees Loki’s lips twist into just the hint of a smile, and knows that his claim has put the man at ease despite himself. “And what, are you not interested?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. Loki regards him steadily before sidling over, a long finger darting outwards. He pokes him in the shoulder – actually _pokes_ him, the action at once exceedingly childish and impish. His tone is mocking.  

“Sure I am. I’ve always longed for a sugar daddy.” He grins, the look all teeth, but his eyes are strangely kind. Tony is left in the kitchen, the parting shot all he is given, and he feels as if it’s not much to be going on. He looks at his own empty glass in his hand, considering Loki as if he were working on one of his puzzles: deeply, and with an air of oblivion to the world around him. It is strong enough that he doesn’t hear quiet feet behind him, until a low voice calls.

“Don’t try that.” Natasha says and Tony jumps about three feet in the air like a startled cat.

 _“Jesus,_ don’t you make any noise when you walk?” he demands of the redhead, setting his glass down and scowling. Natasha looks at him carefully, her arms crossed over her chest. Her pale, colourless eyes rove over him in such a way that Tony feels stripped, left a little bit bare and a hell of a lot helpless as she speaks.

“Read up on Asgard Industries.” She suggests, leaving the room just as quietly as she entered it. Tony gives up on understanding either Loki or Natasha for the evening, deciding both are about as logical as a cartel of spooked horses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late I am trash my beta is my love thank you for putting up with my bullshit

_ The Palate Test _

It has been weeks, now, but the shock of seeing John Torode in front of him,  _ right in front of him _ , still sends Loki for a loop. It’s clear that this shock has worn off for just about everyone else (Loki will eventually realise that, no, everyone else just has a poker face where his features just go cold). 

The Palate Test is actually a very beautifully set up challenge - the hopeful amateurs are given a dish created by Torode, and they have to identify and recreate the dish with the given ingredients in an hour. “It gets rid of the real amateurs,” Thor had said, years ago now. “And like, lets the good chefs move on and do better, you know?” he’d said. Loki still agrees, despite how distasteful the thought of agreeing with Thor is to him now. 

He gets a good look at the dish - it’s mainly white with a dill garnish, some kind of fish - they are given a few minutes to just look, smell, observe and try to identify what they can without tasting. Loki grabs a fork the second he’s allowed and gets a good sized bite, chewing slowly.  _ Fish. White fish...halibut?  _ He doesn’t exactly “like” seafood, he tolerates it, but something about that doesn’t seem right, halibut doesn’t sit right on his tongue. No, it’s cod. It holds together too well not to be. On to the sauce, it’s orange and maybe tomatoes? It tastes like capers, but it could also be green olives. He gets another look and decides capers because they go better with white fish. 

Tony is confident with seafood, aside from Rosa’s well-loved dishes, this is something he loves. Seafood in all forms: Asian inspiration, grilled, fried, raw, cooked, he’ll take it any way you’ll serve it. When he tastes this fish, he is confident in calling it halibut, and then with the garnish he knows exactly what he’s doing. He is slicing tomatoes and oranges before he grabs a fish, the onions are grilling as he’s picking his halibut.  It throws him for a loop for a moment when he sees Loki grab a piece of cod. There is the possibility that he is being an idiot for second guessing himself, and he goes with that opinion when he grabs the halibut. He puts the sauce in a saucepan, not getting the impression that it’s cooked with the fish. 

Loki realises about two minutes into plating that it wasn’t cod, but halibut and takes a moment to curse his own stupidity. He is going to get eliminated over a  _ fish.  _ He doesn’t even  _ like _ fish.  A part of him wants to look at the heavens and ask himself why he decided any of this was a good idea.

Instead, he dresses the dish and presents it,  feeling the knot of tension low in his gut. He feels like he can barely keep himself steady on his feet. The announcer’s voice makes him want to vomit from anxiety alone.

“Loki, you’ve chosen…?” he gulps a little. 

“Cod.” he blurts, knowing it’s the wrong answer. He looks Torode in the eye and in that moment, they both know that the other knows. Both judges get a bite and Loki prays. Absently, but the sentiment is definitely there. 

“The sauce is extremely well done, capers?” judge number two who - good lord, Loki almost forgot Gregg Wallace’s name. Loki nods, heart in his throat. Wallace nods again, turning to Tony’s dish.  Loki feels like his insides have turned to water.

If there’s one thing Tony doesn’t get, it’s nervous. Or so he’d have you believe. He is confident with his halibut, despite Loki’s cod throwing him in for a loop. 

“Tony, I’d like to just say that this is delicious.” Torode says. He gives a smug little smirk. When they both finish tasting the dish, they turn to the remaining contestants. “While I’d love to let all of you win, you can’t win if you don’t get the fish right. Loki, Peter, Bruce...I’m sorry, but it was halibut.” 

Tony mentally high fives himself. Loki’s self confidence dies a quiet death. 

When Peter leaves, it’s not unexpected, but it stings. 

****

_ “Halibut.”  _ Loki hisses to himself,  his anger finally surfacing through the fear he had felt coming so close to getting eliminated. He’s leaning against a counter, fingernails impatiently tapping, waiting for the kettle to boil. He wants, above all, to call his mother and feels like a child for it. 

The kettle clicks softly, and he turns around for it when he hears the kitchen door open. He grits his teeth when he recognises Tony’s voice.

“Hi”. 

“Yes, hello.” he snaps and starts pouring the water,  entirely too fed up with himself to be more than civil.  Tony’s hand claps on his back and then there’s burning, Loki’s hands slipping from the kettle.  _ “Dammit!” _ he yells, and the sound bursts from him and echoes through the small kitchen. Stomping away from the counter, he towards the sink to pour cold water over his burnt hand. Tony looks startled at the outburst, and perhaps more than a bit stricken.

“S - sorry.” he offers, quietly. He grabs a dish towel and mops up the scalding water, trying to make up for the blunder. Loki sighs, his hand burning but not badly.  The cold water cools down some of his rage, letting it turn instead to ash.

“It’s fine.” he mutters.  _ “Fucking halibut.” _ And  _ jesus _ , Loki,  _ doesn’t  _ cry.  Instead, he turns off the tap with hunched shoulders, brushing past Tony even as he cradles his hand. He goes to bed, his muttered “Goodnight.”  as much of an apology as anything else. 

“Night.” Tony mutters back, only after Loki has already left the kitchen. He finds himself staring at the cloth he’s used to clean up the hot water, now gone cold in his hand. For just a moment, he’d felt bad for his opponent. It was a somewhat unsettling feeling.

_ Halibut.  _

_ The Choice Test _

When speaking about Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, food critics for the well-known food magazine “Ultron”, words such as “terrifying” and “ruthless” are thrown around. The words Maximoff and “scathing” are often seen hand in hand. 

Needless to say, they come with a reputation. When Tony sees them walk in for what is called the Choice Test, an 80 minute challenge in which they create some ungodly dish for not just the judges but for celebrity food critics, he’s nonplussed at best. 

This  can absolutely not be said for Loki, who looks two breaths away from a full-blown anxiety attack. 

Tony doesn’t need to think about his dish, not really.  He’s comfortable kneading pasta dough with sauce on the pot, in fact he’s feeling fairly confident in his dish. There’s a soothing kind of rhythm in making what you love, and Tony has loved pasta since before he could read.

In comparison Loki pulls out the shrimp and absently worries that he might be crying.  He feels something almost like panic when he gets a white wine butter sauce together and almost burns it, but gets it together when he hears that familiar sizzle. Plating it is when he finds his heart in his mouth, but he’s beginning to find some calm. His hands are shaking, but his mind is clear as he artfully arranges some watercress on the large shrimp. The pale sauce splashes on the edge of the dish and he curses, wiping it off with a trembling dish towel. 

Tony; some ways away, is pouring tomato sauce over his homemade gnocchi and getting the garlic bread out of the oven when he’s been told he has five minutes. He feels perfectly confident in himself, really, he isn’t panicking.  _ Really!  _ He puts the slice of garlic bread on the edge of each plate, dusting it with parmesan as the dinger goes off. There’s something like a spring in his step when he puts his dish on the counter, one that Loki can’t even pretend to have. 

He’s a mess, really. He is sweating, his long black hair is falling out a bun that was barely keeping it up in the first place, and shaking like a leaf when he puts the dish down. 

Her eyes are blue, both of them have blue eyes but Wanda’s almost seem  _ red  _ when Loki puts his dish down. The shrimp look shockingly plain against the soft pattern of her dress, the watercress limp in comparison to how sharp Pietro’s eyes are. 

“I’ve made a...a, um.” he swallows, feels like his throat is closing and his lungs filling with anxiety like it’s smoke. “Shrimp in white wine butter sauce with w - w - watercress salad.” he manages to get out. He rubs a hand through messy hair compulsively, struggling to gather his thoughts in one place. They are cold when they take a bite and Loki can feel his lungs constricting all over again. Pietro nods, just a little, and his heart rate goes up unhealthily. He looks over to his sister and they give each other a small, borderline imperceptible look that makes him want to vomit. 

It’s not until Tony puts his dish down that he feels a curl of anxiety. It’s not a loud, demanding thing, and he isn’t shaking on his feet like Loki is in the corner, but he’s just nervous enough that when he puts the plate down he gives Wanda a look that could almost mean  _ “please” _ . She of course takes no heed and takes a bite of gnocchi, chewing pensively. Pietro tears the garlic bread in half, taking a bite. He seems...pleased? Tony thinks he’s pleased. 

“Homemade gnocchi with tomato sauce and garlic bread.” he says, remembering that he needs to explain his dish when an awkward silence stretches. 

“Thank you.” One of the judges, he’s fucked if he knows which, says. He stands back in line, beside Loki. Despite the inches between them, he can feel the taller man trembling. 

Throughout the entire time the Maximoff twins review their dishes, comment, question, Loki feels like he’s dying. Honest to god, actually going to cry, dying. He keeps his mouth shut, and when the elimination is announced, swears he can hear his own name being called when Bruce hangs his head and unties his apron. There are tears bubbling at his eyes, pure stress putting them there and he very carefully looks at his shoes. 

“It was a good run, Bruce.” he hears Torode say, clapping the slight man on the back. He leaves and Loki nods at him.

When he gets a second alone (and by this, Loki has barricaded himself in the bathroom) he doesn’t just cry, he  _ sobs _ . He pulls at his hair, stress flaying every nerve he has until he feels like one giant scrape, over exposed and pained. He washes his face afterwards, using cold water so that the redness goes away. When he looks into the mirror, he still looks worn out but less like he’s been crying. He opens the door and Tony is leaning against the adjacent wall. 

“Did your dad really unknowingly adopt a business competitors illegitimate love child?” he reads from his phone, though the question is directed at Loki. The taller man sighs. 

“No, he  _ knowingly  _ adopted a business competitors illegitimate love child before Asgard Industries almost got bought by said business competitor.” Loki corrects, well past tired of this story. For fuck’s sake, it’s been seven years since that came out. Tony looks up from his phone. 

“Shit man, you guys have got  _ issues _ .” he offers, something like sympathy in his voice. 

“Well. Business is business, even in the mall cop industry.” he snaps. 

“I think you mean ‘personal security’ industry.” Tony corrects from the article on his phone. “Which, incidentally, is highly competitive.” he raises an eyebrow. “Damn, I should buy stocks in Asgard, you guys are doing good.” He peels himself off the wall and moves towards the living room. 

“ _ Them _ , not  _ us _ . I’m no longer welcome to the inheritance.” Loki points out sharply, following. 

This is not strictly speaking true: he is still in Odin’s will with a third of the company. Two thirds go to his (adoptive) brother and the man’s irritatingly smart girlfriend, Jane. Despite the literal fortunes being thrown around, he is petty and pissed about getting one third. Tony clicks his tongue at him. 

“I almost got scrapped off the will when I threatened to drop out of MIT.” he says sympathetically. 

“Oh to be young and rich.” Natasha says from where she’s perched on the couch.  She smirks at them lazily, cat-like and relaxed. 

“Yachts in the Bahamas, trust funds in your stockings.” Steve chips in, popping a skittle in his mouth.  He’s curled up on the floor, completely ignoring the couch in favour of the plush carpet. “I didn’t see the inside of a plane until I was eighteen.” he continues. 

“You weren’t missing much.” Loki offers. 

“Ooooh, Asgard just went up two points.” Tony says from the other end of the couch.  He flops onto the piece of furniture as if he owns it, and really, Loki wonders, it’s possible that he does.

“Did you seriously just buy stocks in mall cops?” Natasha demands.

“Did you seriously just buy stocks in mall cops owned by my adoptive father?”  The youngest son of Odin rejoins.

“You can buy stocks on your cell phone?” Steve marvels. 

“Yes, yes, and  _ yes _ , Steve, welcome to the 21st century.” Tony replies, looking somewhat piqued .  Loki buries his head in his hands, resisting the urge to groan.  _ Rich people. _

“Why is that not illegal?” he demands. 

“Mall cops, cell phones or stocks? You’ll have to be a little more specific there green-eyes, there’s lots going on.” Tony points out. 

“All of the above!” Loki snaps. He shakes his head. “I’m going to bed.” he says, uncurling and going towards the bedrooms. 

Tony’s eyes trace him the entire walk there. “Did I say something?” he asks, turning from Steve to Natasha. “Nah, you’re very smooth, Stark.” Natasha offers sarcastically. “Can you show me how to get stocks on your phone?” Steve asks and Tony obliges, if only because he enjoys being the smartest man in the room. 

Loki pads towards the kitchen and notes Tony on the couch. 

“Sorry if I said something stupid.” Tony offers and against his better judgement, Loki sits on the couch next to him. They spend the better part of another hour talking, and Tony begins to feel like he’s just spending time with a friend rather than chatting up a potential partner, when he takes note of the fact that they’ve stopped laughing, and they’re about as close as they can get on the couch and it’s very  _ very  _ hard for Tony to ignore the inch of space between their lips. Loki’s eyes, which Tony has the opportunity to note are very  _ very  _ green, keep flicking between his eyes and his lips. 

“This is stupid.” he breathes and just like that, Loki is moving farther away on the couch. He sighs, looking at the floor. 

“We’re still competitors, Tony.” he murmurs, very softly. Loki stands, shaking his head, as if he might shake away the daze that had come over them both. He brushes imaginary dust from his clothes,  all the while refusing to look in Tony’s direction . “Good night.” he says. And Tony feels like an idiot. 

_ The Skill Test _

When the rules of the Skill Test are explained, Tony wants to bash his head against a wall. The four of them have 25 minutes to make one of two recipes, selected ahead which is, in this case: smoked quail with port dressing and cauliflower salad or zucchini and dapple cheese wraps. He wants to curse but doesn’t, instead getting out what he needs for the wraps. 

Loki, on the other hand, is itching for a chance to do better (has been, really, since the halibut) and is racing for the quails and chopping walnuts almost at the same time. The time pressure is, frankly, astounding. There is no talking, barely more than breathing amidst the sound of chopping, beating, mixing, pouring, the hum of ovens for the 25 minutes they have been allotted. There is the ever-present cameras but even they seem strangely subdued. It’s like his own heartbeat is drowning out the din.

He feels like he’s drowning but not in the overwhelming sense; more like there is a layer between him and reality. Loki only burns himself against a pan once and doesn’t feel it until he runs cold water over his hand. He serves the quail with hands that do not shake even a little and wipes the side of the dish down with precision he barely notices. He puts his messy hair into a bun at the base of his skull and presents his dish deftly. 

When he sees the anxiety in Steve’s eyes he wonders whether he should be stressing. 

As soon as Torode cuts into Steve’s quail, the room goes dead silent. Not that it was particularly rowdy before, but the bird is clearly still pink. They eat around it in silence. It is like a pit has found its way into Steve’s stomach, the cook looks like he’s going to be ill.

“Aside from being undercooked, it really is beautifully done, Steve.” Wallace offers kindly. Steve gives a little nod, but there’s the knowledge that he’s failed in those cornflower-blue eyes.  At this point in the competition, there is little room for failure.

Next is Loki’s dish and for a fleeting moment, he feels something almost like nervousness, but he is too fried for it to fully blossom. The bird that Torode cuts in to this time is perfectly cooked, Loki knows it, and there’s something like relief crawling around under his skin. 

“Delicious.” Torode comments and it brings a smile to his lips. 

Tony knows down to the very most basic cells that his dish looks hideous. The wraps are lopsided, but down to that basic cell knows that they are cooked properly. Natasha’s, however, look wonderful in comparison to his, which he’s very comfortable admitting. 

“Sloppy presentation, but they do taste great.” Torode says and Wallace nods and Tony screams internally despite knowing it.  He settles for nodding once, his hands tight at his sides. They serve up Natasha’s dish, and Tony prays something with it is wrong. 

Of course, he knows there isn’t.

“Natasha, your wraps are very well-presented, also delicious.” Wallace declares after taking a bite. He puts his fork down and Steve hangs his head.  It’s clear to everyone who is going home tonight.

“You’ve had a good run.” Both judges get up and Torode puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. They all hug him, and he leaves.  Tony knows that he has gotten to the next round by the skin of his teeth.

It is not “more” awkward now that Steve is gone, because it was always awkward. Yet without him, it is not so easy to speak, to find words that don’t fall to ash on Tony’s mouth.  The trio settle for sitting in silence in the livingroom for a while, until finally, Tony can’t take it. He says the first thing that comes to his mind, staring at his drink.

“The fuck even is a quail.”

Natasha huffs a laugh from underneath those bright red curls and Tony considers that she’s beautiful, but when Loki sits on the couch opposite he finds himself considering threading his calloused fingers through dark hair. Like the adult he is, he drinks the rest of his beer and heads to bed instead of dealing with his feelings.  The other two are left to marinate by themselves.

It is once again a while before either of them dare to speak, but it is Loki that breaks first. 

“I thought for sure I was getting eliminated during the Choice Test.” Loki confesses. 

“No way, you’re too cute.” Nat assures. Her smile is quick, teasing. 

“Yes but it was  _ both  _ of them.” He insists, and feels again the echo of anxiety he had experienced before. Instead of replying, she stands up and pats his head. Her voice is a soft breath by his ear, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gone.

“You need to  _ relax,  _ Loki. You’re cooking isn’t the problem. It’s your confidence.”

He’s left wondering exactly  _ wha _ t to make of her,  blinking at the words of advice even as she disappears, red hair a beacon in the dim light.

_ Pressure Test _

_ “The Pressure Test: where the remaining contestants work a lunchtime shift at a busy restaurant under the supervision of a professional chef who comments on their performance.” _

They are taken to a diner for the pressure test. The diner is owned by a very neat man named Phil Coulson, who is also the head chef. He explains to them the basics of his kitchen, explains the necessary safety requirements and sets them up. He gives them each a copy of the menu and runs them through each of the menu items. “In mains, we offer chicken, ham or grilled cheese sandwiches, steak and beef burgers. Our -” There is a  _ crash  _ as one of the camera men drops the leg of a tripod. “Sorry.” he offers sheepishly. “sides are a garden salad, fries and coleslaw.” he continues as though nothing happened.  He exudes a confidence that makes all three of them feel somehow very small.

Once they are welcomed in to the small kitchen and settled, the tickets start flying in. Loki ties his hair as Coulson starts reading out the first order.  His voice rings like military orders, fast and sure.

“Table six: two beef burgers, no onions on one of them, fries, salad.” he reads out. Tony sets up the plate as Loki puts down two burger patties. Once they are half-cooked, he puts the onions on the grill and Tony puts the fries in the deep fryer. 

“Table three: one chicken sandwich with salad, one steak medium rare with fries, two grilled cheese with fries and salad.” Coulson reads out and Natasha gets to work. 

“Burgers up!” Tony yells, getting both plates on the counter as the next order comes in. 

“Natasha!” Coulson calls. She turns her head, flipping a steak. 

“Burger on table 12 came back, too raw.” he says, putting the plate down. “Cook it for a little longer and bring it back out.” he orders and Natasha pulls it out of the bun, placing it on the grill next to the steak. She mutters something in Russian and Tony takes an involuntary step closer to his side of the grill. 

“Burger on 12 on the counter!” she yells, all but slamming the plate down. A terrified looking waitress grabs it and puts it on his tray. 

“Table 16: three steaks, medium rare, two well done. Fries, salad and coleslaw.” Coulson sticks the order on the magnetic top. 

“Loki, get two steaks and I’ll grab the medium rare.” Tony says, plating a chicken sandwich. He nods and gets two out of the fridge. Under the hiss of raw meat meeting the stainless steel grill, the waitress from earlier comes back. 

“Burger on 12, it’s over done.” she says, bowing her head like she’s scared. Natasha looks up from her plate and turns slowly. “I’ll get another one going.” she says, her jaw clicking. The waitress nods and takes another order out. While getting another burger out, she looks like she could kill someone. Tony fears for burger guy. 

“Burger on 12, raw  _ again _ !” Coulson yells. Loki sees two things happen: first of all, Natasha puts down her spatula and hands it to Loki without a word. And second of all, she grabs a frying pan and a knife and heads out of the kitchen. Tony and Loki look to each other with the same terrified expression. 

Eight months from now, curled up on Tony’s couch, when this season of MasterChef is on TV and this episode is aired, they will see themselves nervously preparing their next orders and then they will see Natasha holding a frying pan and a knife in one hand. They will see Clint sitting at table twelve alone, on his phone, and they will see Natasha stab the burger with the knife. It catches Clint’s attention right away, and then she hits him over the head with the frying pan.

“Over  _ cooked  _ my ass.” she snaps and goes back into the kitchen. He rubs his head and eats his burger without another word. 

Loki sees the bloody knife and, not daring to say anything, turns back to his steak. Even Tony keeps a lower profile than usual, taking the orders with minimal sarcasm. 

When Natasha is eliminated nobody is even slightly surprised. 

****

“I wonder what Nat did.” Loki says, pouring himself a glass of water and moving to the couch. 

“Bet you anything she killed 12.” Tony says, flopping down next to him. They both smell like smoke, but in a good way. There is still tension between them, not the easy romantic sort but the stuttering, awkward sort. 

“Tony…” Loki starts, and then seems to change his mind. 

“Nothing’s changed.” he points out. 

“Doesn’t have to mean anything.” Tony offers lightly. He can feel Tony’s leg beside his, smell that familiar smoke on his clothes. When they kiss, it’s great, and it’s satisfying, but when they break away it leaves something oil slick in his stomach. 

“I can’t.” he says quietly. Tony nods, understanding. 

“Good luck tomorrow.” he pats Loki’s shoulder and walks away. Loki can’t help but fight the guilt that comes with leading him on. 

_ The Final _

Loki finishes buttoning up his shirt and, the moment he does, feels like he’s about to vomit. The final is announced on the spot, and every year it changes. He has no idea what to expect and with that, comes the usual butterflies. He ties his hair shakily and puts on his apron, getting ready to go downstairs when Tony bumps into him. 

“Hey.” he offers, popping a blueberry in his mouth. 

“Hi.” Loki says and can’t think of anything else to say. 

“I hope it goes well, no matter what, yeah?” Tony says. Loki nods. ‘You too’ seems a little flippant, but he goes for it anyways. They walk downstairs and for just a second, their hands brush. 

The kitchen is set up differently - two counters are shoved together with all of the appliances of both, and there are four boxes, which is how Loki knows it will be like the invention test. 

“Gentlemen.” Torode greets. “For the final, you will be doing something similar to the invention test. You both have two boxes and one is filled with sweet items, one with savoury. You will be picking one, and with whatever ingredients you choose, you will create a joint dish. This can be in whatever format you choose, a dessert, a main, both, up to you. You have fifteen minutes to discuss and an hour to complete your dish. Good luck!” he slams down the counter, and their hour and a quarter starts. 

Loki opens his first box and when he sees the ingredients (cotton candy extract, maraschino cherries and ground almonds) he has a good idea of what to do. 

“Cotton candy mousse.” he tells Tony and the other man nods, looking through his ingredients. “Tuna, crab and avocado.” Tony offers. 

“Sushi, maybe?” he says. “Or something more carnival themed.” he thinks for a moment. 

“It’s unorthodox, but corn dog sushi?” He says. Loki blinks. “It’ll be the same batter you use for corndogs, but on sushi. On a stick.” He starts getting out the ingredients as the clock ticks. “You get the mousse started, I’ll roll raw fish.” and with that he leaves. Loki considers arguing but finds it to not be an awful idea and gets his stuff together. 

The thing about mousse is that it needs time to cool. Keeping this in mind, Loki gets it done as quickly as he can and leaves them in the commercial-sized chiller, trying to make it as fast as possible. 

“What do you need?” he asks Tony quietly. 

“Help me finish rolling and then frying. When we’re almost done with that you can garnish the mousse.” he says, not raising his head from the delicate sushi roll he’s making. Loki nods and for twenty three minutes, they roll and stick sushi. The timer keeps going down and Loki feels anxiety fluttering about his chest, butterflies in his lungs. 

“I need to get the mousse.” he tells Tony. 

With five minutes left on the clock, Loki puts a jelly bean on each shot glass of candy mousse and Tony puts his sushi corndogs on a square plate. When the timer goes off, they share a brief hug and bring their dishes out to serve. 

Neither of them would admit to how that simple embrace felt like a small eternity, locked together before meeting their fates. 

“Loki, Tony, you’ve both done so well in this competition. Whatever the result of tonight’s round, we’d just like to say…” Wallace pauses for a second. “We’re incredibly proud of you both of you for all of the hard work you’ve done. Let’s have a look, shall we?” Torode gestures towards the screen behind them and the highlights of their entire time on the show come up. There are shots of Loki and Tony laughing, close ups of them concentrating hard and (it makes Loki swallow to see it) the Palette Test and the halibut disaster. He can feel Tony’s eyes on him and looks towards him. For a moment, they are just two men equally confused and hopeful as each other. 

“Tony Stark, congratulations for your performance, and on being the  _ winner of this year’s MasterChef! _ ”

And all at once, Loki’s entire world falls apart. He smiles and shakes Tony’s hand, accepts the congratulations, and doesn’t cry until he is packing his things. He has no idea how to call his mother and say he lost, how to go back to the restaurant he works at and be the man who lost MasterChef to Tony Fucking Stark. He isn’t sure that he hates the man until he opens the door (without knocking, the rude fuck) and hands him a box of tissues with a pitiful expression on his face. What really seals the nail on his coffin is that he is holding the trophy like it’s stolen goods - protectively but nervously. “Get that  _ thing  _ and yourself out of here, Stark.” he growls. Tony looks from the trophy to Loki (who is currently debating whether to light the man on fire or go the whole Gregori Rasputin) and gets the picture. He fiddles with it before handing it to Loki in a series of jerky movements that were probably supposed to be a humble motion. Loki almost slaps it out of his smug hand. “I told them that you deserved it more.” Tony mutters, looking at the floor with his hand still outstretched. 

It takes Loki a full twenty seconds to get words out of his mouth, but when he does, he has absolutely no way of holding them in. “Of course I deserve it more! I have worked more for this  _ opportunity  _ alone then you have in your  _ entire life _ !” he yells, slamming his suitcase shut. “I almost lost my just-above-minimum-wage job for this you prick! And you’re just going to home to your dick-shaped Stark tower and someone’s going to add ‘winner of MasterChef’ to your fucking Wikipedia page and that trophy’s going to end up at the bottom of some filing cabinet.” Loki bites out. He makes to leave, but Tony stops him. “Please.” he says so quietly that Loki almost misses it. Almost. 

“You do deserve this more than I do, Loki.” Tony says hesitantly. “I don’t deserve this.” he repeats and from there he doesn’t know what to say.  _ She deserves this. Rosa would have deserved this.  _ He thinks. And because he cannot articulate that in to words, Loki leaves, and Tony holds the trophy in his hands like a spoil of war. 

Loki buckles his seatbelt over his lap just like the flight attendant always says (even though, really, it should be common sense by now, right?  _ Right? _ ) and just as he is getting his hopes up that maybe the seat next to him will remain empty for the whole six hour flight, he is left crushed when a woman and her young child check their tickets (twice) and sit down beside him. Three hours in, the little boy has fallen asleep and is leaning towards Loki’s shoulder. He considers throwing himself out of the plane. 

Two thousand miles away, heading towards Miami, Tony Stark is sitting in much less cramped accommodations, scrolling a Stark Pad desperately. “Where does he even live?” he demands. “Montreal, sir.” JARVIS replies. “Good. That’s where we’re going. Immediately.” Tony puts down the Stark Pad and goes towards the cockpit, a bad idea already brewing. 

Picking up his suitcase, Loki heads for arrivals, his suitcase dragging behind him. He drags his suitcase when he sees a sign, a bright red one, that says “LOKI” in gold. He stops dead in his tracks and looks from the sign to the calloused hands holding it to the scraggly-haired man holding it. There’s a suitcase next to him. “I made it here before you by, like, an hour.” Tony says, grinning crookedly. Loki puts down his suitcase. “Well, good for you.” he says. “Look, Loki.” Tony puts down the sign. 

“I didn’t deserve to win. Not by a long shot. I deep fried sushi, for god’s sake. I didn’t win fairly and I followed you all the way out to this city,” he breaks off and looks to the “welcome” sign. “Where are we anyways?” he asks. “Montreal.” Loki says dryly. “Because I have something of yours.” he says, and then slings off a beaten up backpack. He pulls out the trophy (seeing it almost makes Loki gag) and hands it to him. “I wasn’t kidding. They changed their minds when they realised that you deserved it more.” He says earnestly. It’s the look in Tony’s eyes that convinces Loki to take it. He leans in towards the shorter man. “It’s yours, Tony. I’m not taking it.” he whispers, pushing it back in to Tony’s hands. Tony starts to realise that he has wasted six hours over something stupid and is already getting ready to pack up and leave when a cold, thin hand lands on his. 

“However, I will have you over for dinner.” 

_ Epilogue _

Eight months later, Tony is in the kitchen making popcorn. “Get in here!” Loki yells. “It’s about to start.” he insists. “What episode even is this?” Tony asks, walking in to the room with the bowl in one hand and a jar of dulce de leche and a spoon in the other. “The Pressure Test, and all that we missed.” he says eagerly. He reaches a blind hand out for the popcorn. Loki has not moved in with him - not in the official sense anyways. He spends two weekends out of every month in New York with Tony, and Tony spends two weekends in Montreal with Loki. The thought of moving in for good has crossed both their minds, and after six months (well, seven really) of dating, perhaps it is time. 

But that’s not on Tony’s mind when he flops on the couch and hands Loki the bowl of popcorn. There’s an old security blanket between them, worn thin in Loki’s hands, and Tony wonders if maybe he deserves this after all. He sticks a spoon of dulce de leche in his mouth and with his free hand, he runs his fingers through Loki’s hair. 

“On this  _ shocking  _ episode of MasterChef….”


End file.
